The first discernable gray hair was no big deal. A fluke. Some random sign of days to come. Nothing to sweat, or fret.
That was years ago. There are more gray ones more now. If I look in good light, I can see them everyday.
Here’s something odd about gray hair (or my gray hair): they don’t feel any different than the curly brown ones. They are just there. When I successfully ignore them (and I do), I don’t feel any older. I don’t feel any different.
Unlike the grays, I would have thought being published with TOUGHSKINS would make me feel, well, different. Smarter. More hip. More interesting. More intriguing.
With the release of my novel, I imagined I’d be invited to more parties. Posh parties. My social schedule would be full. With the ongoing book tours, I’d dash from one coast to the other. And what’s this? Europe? Signings in Italy, Germany and France? Oui.
Yes, I should feel different. I’m published.
I don’t feel different.
I’d like to feel different. I’d like to think John and Bret, the main characters in TOUGHSKINS, make a difference. I’d like to know that their tender sides reach someone. I’d like to know that their broken hearts touch someone. I’d like to know that what they overcome both alone and together teaches someone.
Am I impatient? Are my aspirations are too high?
Just buy the dang book, people, and love me. No, like really love me.
Is that too much to ask?
I make jokes here, but, bottom line: I wonder who picks up the novel and lives, even for a moment, with the characters. John and Bret, who I once described as golden retriever puppies—one blonde, the other red—hold some of my soul. They always will.
In the cosmos, that should make a difference, shouldn’t it?